


When None Can Call Our Power to Account

by onestepatatime32



Category: Takarazuka Revue Musicals, ひかりふる路 | A Passage Through the Light - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: A bit AU, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Max isn’t having a good day but don’t worry soon he won’t have any more bad days :’D, Sad as hecc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24650410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onestepatatime32/pseuds/onestepatatime32
Summary: Maximillien has too much blood on his hands.
Relationships: Maximillien Robespierre/Marie-Anne de Benoit
Kudos: 2
Collections: Guess the author Round three





	When None Can Call Our Power to Account

**Author's Note:**

> Second fic for round 3 of the Takarazuka guess the author game (a few weeks ago, trying to catch up with my posting).

It’s nearly midnight when she finds him after his meeting and suggests they go for a walk. He’s too tired to resist, his distracted mind a whirlwind of collapsing ideals, revolution, and blood he feels he could spend a thousand lifetimes unable to scrub away. It’s a clear night.

He’s too distracted to see the way she breathes unevenly, steadies herself, and flexes her hands as they walk, or even to notice when she begins to fall behind him. In fact, he notices nothing until they pause in a dimly-lit alley and he feels the unmistakable sensation of steel pressed against his side by a shaking hand.

_Ah._

He understands immediately. The last defense in his mind collapses as he slumps against the wall and raises his eyes to meet hers. They are not cold like he fears, not completely; he still sees the warmth in them that captured his heart so long ago, but it burns differently now. It seems to blaze right through him. All the fire for justice-and the future-he can no longer find in his own blood-marred reflection seems to have found a home in her eyes. He’d be terrified if he were not so tired.

Breaking the stillness, he places exhausted, pale hands over her shaking ones on the hilt of the dagger she braces against his side. He doesn’t fight her, doesn’t push her away, doesn’t ask why, plead, or try to make her see. He knows she sees all of him and more, even through the rotting curtain of idealism in his mind he fears to look behind.

Another day he might still have run from this, but no lofty ideals can bring back all he’s ruined. Instead he smiles quietly with cracked, pale lips and raises her hands so the dagger rests higher up on his chest. She presses the dagger forward sharply but hesitates one last time.  
In the moment she wavers he makes a split second decision and finishes the motion for her.

None of the pain pierces him as deeply as the look of sickened shock on her face as she feels her dagger sink between his ribs. She jolts as if to pull back for a moment but collapses against him instead. They crumble to the ground tangled together. It’s strange, he thinks, to feel the warmth of both his blood and her tears spreading across his shirt.

She asks him why.

He tells her the truth. _It had to be you, Marie-Anne, it always would have been._ He has known ever since their first night together-that was a night like this. They laid there breathlessly until dawn with the breeze from her windows blowing through their disheveled hair. He laughed when she showed him the knife she always carried and confessed that she had planned to kill someone with it. A corrupt political leader, she said, avoiding his eyes. The hideous monster who destroyed her family.

That night he held her close and teased her that should he ever truly become those things she would have first shot at his throat. Tonight his arms are already too weak to hold her. His thoughts begin to fragment.

_Will you forgive me for becoming all you believed of me?_

The all-too-familiar gentleness of her hands on his chest say she will, she does.

The last thing he feels is her lips brushing his forehead, and the last thing he knows is the first spark of hope he has felt in months.


End file.
